


The Femme Fatale

by Eolivet



Category: Downton Abbey, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:43:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eolivet/pseuds/Eolivet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Downton Abbey/Sherlock crossover: Sherlock finds himself in 1913, and is bored enough to help sort out the romantic woes of a strange man with a bicycle, while making a startling deduction about a mystery woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Femme Fatale

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The most recent incarnations of the characters described herein belong to Julian Fellowes and ITV, and Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Timeline: Set after “Downton Abbey,” episode 5.
> 
> Acknowledgments: Thank you to my sister for all her support and encouragement, and for liking this enough to give me the courage to post it.
> 
> A/N: I realize Matthew doesn’t technically have an inheritance yet, but Sherlock only has a limited amount of information to draw upon.

Sherlock stepped out onto the dusty streets, into the warm sun and the fresh air. He glanced to his right and saw a man walking a bicycle. The whole scene was so irritating he whipped out his phone and started texting:

 _John,_

 _Took a wrong turn and landed in the middle of the countryside. Need you to come get me. Use the GPS, I know I’m close to a major city._

 _SH_

He was interrupted just as he was about to hit send by the rather noisy sound of a car chugging down the road. Rolling his eyes, he texted again:

 _There appears to be some sort of antique car gathering. Have you found my location yet?_

 _SH_

Hitting the “send” button, he stared in annoyance when it appeared his phone had no service. He spotted the man walking the bicycle out of the corner of his eye, and was about to annoyedly inquire why exactly his phone should be out of range so close to a major city when he saw how the man was dressed. … _Oh._ Yes, Sherlock was most _definitely_ out of range.

Out of habit, he typed the information into his now useless phone:

 _Nevermind._

 _SH_

“…Can I help you?” the man on the bicycle was asking him. At Sherlock’s incredulous look, the man clarified, “Sorry – you look lost.”

“No, you have that backwards,” Sherlock informed him. Before the man could reply, Sherlock added, “Well, it’s clearly _you_ who’s lost.”

Now the man looked puzzled. “I’m not— why would you think _I_ was lost?”

“Because you have some problems with a woman,” Sherlock answered, with an irritated sigh – and just to cut off any more obnoxious questions, he added, “Oh please, it’s so obvious – your bicycle.”

The man looked utterly confused, but had yet to deny anything Sherlock had said. “What do you mean my bicycle? What does that have to do with— sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock answered. “You look like a man of some means, yet you’re not driving a car to your law office – or…being driven in a car, and you’re not walking. You’re using your bicycle to work off your sexual frustration – hence, problems with a woman.”

“Hang on – what makes you think I work in a law office?” the man asked, his brow furrowing further (if that was even possible).

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Every question I’ve asked, you’ve answered with a question, so you’re obviously a lawyer. And then there’s your briefcase. Pay attention.”

At this, the man looked slightly chastened. “…Oh. Well, you’re….very perceptive.”

“What’s the problem with this woman, then? She doesn’t like you?” Sherlock deadpanned, before clarifying, “That actually _was_ a guess. It’s always down to a woman not liking a man. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one.”

The man opened his mouth, as if he was going to protest, but Sherlock knew he wouldn’t. They never did. Human nature, wanting to blab every last little bit of detail to strangers they’d never see again. “Sometimes, I think she does,” the man admitted. “And then I’m pretty certain that she doesn’t.”

“How can you be certain she doesn’t like you?”

“What do you mean ‘how can I be certain’ – she’s always telling me.”

“In those exact words?” Sherlock wanted to know.

Now the man was getting flustered. “What do you mean ‘in those exact words?’”

“She’s always saying ‘I…do…not…like…you?’” Sherlock emphasized each word for extra effect, as he was clearly talking to an idiot.

Pausing a minute, the man (predictably) replied, “…No. She’s never said that.”

“What has she said?”

“Well…” The man thought a moment. “Lots of things. She— well, she accused me of being middle class—“

“Which you clearly _are_ \--” Sherlock interjected, assessing the man’s appearance.

“Well, yes, until recently, but…technically, yes—“

“’Until recently?’” Sherlock seized upon this point, parroting it back to him. “Means you’ve recently had a change in stature. She’s insulting you means you were lower class, but now you have money.”

The man looked altogether confused. “…Theoretically…eventually… It’s complicated.”

“Interesting. But it appears to be accurate, so technically, she was merely stating facts. What else?”

“She— she…compared me to a sea monster,” the man admitted, quietly.

For the first time since he’d arrived, Sherlock seemed intrigued. “That is rather unusual,” he stated, not wanting to show too much interest in this unexpected turn of events. “Has a certain…poetry to it.”

The man seemed to shrug. “Well, it should. It’s from Greek mythology. She said she was studying the Andromeda story. She was terribly proud of herself,” the man seemed to be recalling, with a rueful smile.

With a disgusted sigh, Sherlock shook his head. What had appeared to be slightly interesting had now once again become horribly mundane. “Right. So, she wants to insult you and instead of expending as little effort as possible, like saying you’re a terrible lawyer or you ride a stupid bicycle, she bothers herself with looking up a slightly obscure myth? You can’t be that daft – even if you are a lawyer,” Sherlock added.

“…Obviously, when you put it like that—“

“What else?”

“Well…times I’ve been up for dinner with her family, she’s completely ignored me. One time it was in favor of this Turkish fellow—“

“Did she insult you?” Sherlock was rapidly growing weary of this conversation.

“No, but—“

“So, she liked the Turkish fellow better. Had nothing to do with not liking you.”

The man still looked unconvinced, before concluding, “Anyway, I suppose it’s not really important.”

“Why would it not be important?”

Looking slightly sheepish, the man stated, “Well…he’s dead now.”

Now Sherlock did stop, turning towards this insipid man on a bicycle that perhaps he had completely underestimated. “Did you kill him?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

“What? No! It happened in the middle of the night, long after I’d left!”

(Typical lawyer, providing an alibi with an explanation).

“…Did she?”

“Of course not!” the man protested, vociferously defending this woman, whoever she was. “She was rather traumatized by the whole thing. It was horrible – just horrible…for the family…for her…”

Sherlock gave the man a look. “Just because she was traumatized doesn’t mean she didn’t kill him. Killing _is_ traumatic, or more people would get away with it.”

“I’ll kindly have you stop implying that she could have killed _anyone_.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock replied, “Right. She insulted your position, your looks and ignored you for another man at dinner, and yet you seem pathetically anxious to defend her honor. I can see why she doesn’t like you.”

The man gave him a look (but no response – obviously, as there was none to be given) and continued to walk his bicycle in silence.

Unfortunately, Sherlock realized – as much as he hoped his brain was powerful enough to simply will John into existence to rescue him – he was even more bored and annoyed by the silence of the perpetually quiet countryside than listening to this man’s ridiculous rationalizations.

“There was another dinner,” Sherlock stated, allowing himself to walk a little faster to catch up. “’One time,’” he quoted. “Means there were others. Another dinner, another man. She ignored you there, as well.”

The man seemed so surprised Sherlock was actually still there, he blurted out, “Not…not at first, but yes, there was another man there. She later said it was…part of some bet, but…I didn’t care to listen to the rest.”

“Ah, so now she’s drawn you into her little game. Is he still alive? Sorry. Does he have more money than you? Wait, your money. New. New can only mean a couple things: business success, which is obviously not possible—“ He gave the man a skeptical look—“or inheritance. Which means…” His eyes grew slightly wider at the implication.

Turning away, the man began walking a little faster now, shaking his head slightly.

“Somebody else died!” Sherlock exclaimed, triumphantly.

The man didn’t answer.

“Judging by your silence, it was someone your mystery woman knew,” Sherlock concluded. “Still ready to defend her from my slanderous accusations?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake – they were on the Titanic! Surely, you’re not implying she had anything to do with _that_!"

“ _They_? There were… _multiple_ men?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, considering the possibility. “Of course – right, it’s preposterous. But you have to admit, that’s a fair amount of men turning up dead around her. And she’s got herself a lawyer who fancies her – oh, she _is_ clever! I can see why you like her. _I’m_ starting to like her.” At the man’s shocked look, Sherlock quickly added, “Oh, she won’t kill you – she _likes_ you. Plus, she’d need you if she ever stood trial.”

The man on the bicycle now looked completely perplexed (and was starting to appear a tad frightened). “You know…I think I’ve had enough of this conversation. Now if you’ll excuse me—“

“You want to get her to admit she _does_ like you?” Sherlock asked, when the man had gotten several steps ahead.

Of course, that stopped him. It always did. The man’s back was still turned (had to pretend like he wasn’t really listening – so obvious, really), so Sherlock waited a few long moments before offering in a loud, calm, clear voice:

“Ignore her.”

As predicted, the man now turned halfway back around. He was silent, but his expression indicated he was definitely pondering Sherlock’s words (of course he was).

“That’s right. Ignore her,” Sherlock repeated. “As in, don’t talk to her. Don’t go near her, don’t pay attention to her. Speak only when she speaks to you. Keep it brief. Pay attention to other women, if possible – that always drives them mad. She’ll come around. That is, if she doesn’t kill you first. Right – joke, sorry.”

The man opened his mouth to respond, but Sherlock’s attention was quickly drawn away from him and to one of those antique cars speeding down the road. It stopped just to the side of him, its motor still running.

“There’s my ride,” Sherlock announced, turning towards the car then back to the man. “Oh, please. She likes you, you like her, you’ll get married and have a bunch of inane children, only a few of whom may kill anyone. Kidding! Can any lawyer take a joke? Don’t answer that…” Sherlock paused for a moment. “Right – never got your name. No, don’t tell me— that’s the only reason I kept talking to you. But you should know mine…” Opening the car door, he proclaimed, proudly, “It’s Sherlock Holmes.”

The door closed behind him, and Sherlock was driven away from the man with the bicycle, who could only watch in stupefied amazement as the car drove down the road. “Took you long enough,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sherlock – time machine was a bit dodgy this morning, you know how it is,” John apologized, not meaning a word of it.

“Where did you get that ridiculous outfit?” John was somehow dressed from head to toe like a proper chauffeur. “Wait – I don’t want to know.”

“Who was that you were talking to, Sherlock?” John asked.

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. “Some lawyer on a bicycle, not important.” He whipped out his useless phone, and started typing:

 _Turkish national_

 _Wealthy_

 _Died 1912?_

Oh, surely some excuse for an amateur investigation had the whole thing sorted. Mystery women didn’t go around killing Turkish fellows (or orchestrating the sinking of ocean liners) or he would have heard about it long before now.

Of course, the very idea was preposterous.

…Wasn’t it?

The End.


End file.
